


It Should Not Have Happened Like This

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: A/U, Attempted Rape, Futurefic, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this game of “what if” this is how it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Should Not Have Happened Like This

**Author's Note:**

> In canon, it has been suggested that Peter has twelve years of service in the FBI (the college diploma on his office wall notes that he graduated in 1997). For the purposes of this story, he started with the FBI in 1991, and at the beginning of the action, he has just finished his twentieth year.

**October, 2005**  


The morning after Neal Caffrey was sentenced to four years in prison, Elizabeth Burke didn’t wake up. She and Peter were about to leave on a well-deserved vacation, but she slept through her alarm, and through Peter’s alarm. When he went to wake her, she didn’t respond. Peter shook her, and her arms were frozen - locked around her pillow. He turned on the lights, and Elizabeth’s eyes were opened, glassy in death.

The coroner’s report said it was a burst aneurism, and that she died instantly, painlessly.

**October 2009**

Neal Caffrey never escaped from the Supermax where he served his entire four-year sentence. Kate never came to bid him _adios_ when he had four months left to go. In fact, Kate never came to see him. Not once. Nor did Mozzie or any of his other so-called friends and acquaintances.

All in all, Neal considered himself a lucky man, to leave prison with his sanity and his virtue intact. While his friends on the outside may have abandoned him, he quickly made friends on the inside. He understood power, how to get it, how to keep it and when to use it. The first time someone tried to make him his prison bitch, he broke the man’s arms. The second time, he kneecapped the bastard. There was no third time.

He knew that the day he walked out of prison was going to be the one and only time he would ever be concluding a stay at Hotel Fed. He wasn’t going straight, not precisely, but there were ways to use his talents that didn’t necessarily run the risk of invoking the Federal Sentencing Guidelines.

* * *

**October 2011**

“Peter, can I see you in my office?”

Hughes’ call was quick, his voice terse and a little angry. Peter knew exactly what the problem was. And he really didn’t care that the other man was pissed off.

He walked over to his boss’ office and went in, not even bothering to knock.

Hughes didn’t offer him a chair, and Peter stood there with his hands behind his back, as if at parade rest. His eyes were focused on some point off of Hughes’ left shoulder.

“I got a call today from Arthur Moritz - the executive recruitment officer at Concordine Financial Systems. He wanted a little background information about you. Seems his company is looking to hire a new CFO, and you’ve already had four interviews with them, including ones with Concordine’s president and members of the executive staff.”

Peter said nothing.

“Moritz and I go back - we were at school together. Andover.”

Peter muttered something.

“What was that, I didn’t quite make out your comment.”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Hmmm, thought you may have been making a derogatory comment about old school ties.”

“That didn’t cross my mind, sir.”

“Damn it, Peter. Can the attitude.” Hughes gestured to one of the guest chairs and Peter sat down.

“Needless to say, I was rather surprised to hear that my best agent - my right hand, so to speak - is looking to take a civilian job.”

Peter’s stony expression finally broke, and he scrubbed at his face. “Reese - I’m done. I’m burned out - I am at the point where I can’t bear the thought of coming here every day. For every criminal we catch, another gets away. People keep investing in scams and schemes, hoping to get rich quick and then run to us when they find out that the illegal off-shore investment opportunity never existed. I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after suckers.”

Hughes didn’t say anything at first. He pursed his lips and gave Peter a considering look. “You don’t have to leave the Bureau. You could transfer. OC would take you in a second, and if you wanted a break from investigative work, you’d be perfect as an instructor or even a Field Counselor at the Training Academy. You could even take a sabbatical for a few months...get your head cleared, your wind back. Leave the Bureau? Peter, I just can’t see you doing it.”

He gave a silent and bitter laugh. “Reese - I’m not going to get my wind back. My head’s as clear as it will ever be. I need to move on. I’ve only stayed this long because I wanted to get in my twenty.”

“Peter - I can’t believe that you, of all people, have been working out the clock to your retirement.”

“Believe it. I’ve wanted to go for a long time.”

The light finally dawned, and Hughes closed his eyes at the memory of Peter’s anguish. At least he was moving into a civilian position - not just moving on.

“I can’t change your mind?”

“No, I am afraid not.”

“Once I got over my shock, I gave you a good recommendation.”

Peter nodded. “Thank you. It won’t be that much of a change, when you think about it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that - pay’s a lot better, it comes with a seat on the Board of Directors, access to the corporate jet. Probably a very pretty assistant or two.”

Peter grimaced. The last thing he was interested in was pretty assistants.

“Let’s not count chickens before they’re hatched. The offer may not come.”

“Moritz said that the job would be yours if you wanted it.” Hughes sighed. He should have realized that Peter was at the end of his rope. Nothing had been the same since Elizabeth died.

Peter was a different man now. While his spectacular closure and conviction rate was quite arguably the best in the country, he drove his team too hard and had a difficult time keeping a staff together. Probies and transferring young agents were all eager to work with the great Peter Burke, but that excitement lasted for about three months, when they learned what a grim and unrelenting bastard he was. Since ‘05, not a single probationary agent requested a continuing assignment under Peter, and with the exception of a very stalwart Clinton Jones, there has been at least two complete staff turnovers.

What Peter didn’t tell Hughes was something he hated to admit even to himself. Anger and need for violence were constant companions now. It surfaced in how he handled his team, the ceaseless pushing, the cold and unfeeling demeanor masked an atavistic a need to strike out. When he first realized the problem, he tried boxing and martial arts classes as outlets. He was good - almost too good for a man his age, but the structured and rule-bound arenas didn’t quell this deeply masked need to hurt someone. And he knew that carrying a gun made him dangerous in ways that would earn him a suspension if he ever told a Bureau shrink. There was going to come a time very, very soon when he did something he was going to regret.

Just as Hughes told him, Moritz called the next day with an offer. Peter was going to accept, but he played it cool and got an additional twenty percent on his direct compensation, a substantial relocation and signing package and several other perks. Just before Thanksgiving, he’d be lodged in a corner suite on an upper level floor in a new office tower on Wall Street, with matching offices in London, Rio, Beijing and Tokyo.

Life was just wonderful, wasn’t it?

 

**A Friday Night, Mid-November, 2011**

Peter contemplated the half empty bottle of Heisler Gold and figured that he’d need to upgrade his tastes in alcohol, together with his wardrobe, his car and his address once he started his new job. Not that he lived in Brooklyn any longer - he sold the house on DeKalb just before Elizabeth’s unveiling. He had been living in a studio at the southern edge of Chelsea for years now. It occurred to him more than once that paying rent was a waste of money, but he had little motivation to buy.

Besides, he kind of liked the neighborhood. It was _colorful_ in ways that would have make a very much younger and much more naive Peter Burke blush and stammer while confessing to a fascinated interest. Now, it all rolled off his back, like so much water.

There had been a few incidents in the area during the summer after he moved in. Young punks from the outer boroughs who thought it would be fun to beat up on locals found themselves laid out cold, or in handcuffs, or both. It was a convenient outlet for the constantly pent up aggression, and Peter found himself in the odd position as a neighborhood hero. He could walk into just about any bar in Chelsea and simply enjoy himself. And if some nights he didn’t go home alone, he reminded himself that he never made love to his wife in that bed or on those sheets, and he did his best not to feel guilty.

These men knew that Peter wasn’t interested in anything more than a one-night stand - they weren’t either. And while he was certainly a gentleman, they knew that there was no post-coital snuggling, no plans for a cozy breakfast, or brunch at one of the popular watering spots. All Peter Burke was interested in was sex, and when that was done, “there’s the shower.” Peter wasn’t a guy that would walk across the street to avoid running into a former hook-up, but he’d never bring it up if they met face to face. There simply were no second-times-around with him.

Today had been his last with the Bureau. At 4:45, he turned in his keys, his ID, signed a bunch of papers, sat for a very brief exit interview and left. Other than Hughes, he didn’t bid anyone farewell, since most everyone was rather happy to see him go. Everyone but Clinton Jones. He caught Peter as he was about to get into the elevator, and asked him if he’d like to go for a drink.

Peter really wanted to refuse, but Jones got that puppy dog look on his face that reminded him of the Lab that he and Elizabeth once had (which he gave to his sister-in-law, and had since died of old age), and given the fact that he has stuck by him for all these years, he relented.

They had a quick beer, Peter gave him some career advice and they parted company. He supposed he could have found a position for Jones with Concordine - there was something tempting about bringing him along. But even as he considered it, Peter discarded the idea. The whole point was to leave the past behind, start fresh. Build a new life for himself.

Which didn’t explain why he was so damned depressed.

He looked at the bottle and then down the bar. He recognized most of the guys - if not by name, then by type. They were a sad bunch of pathetically self-deluded middle-aged men, working on Wall Street or in a white-shoe firm in Midtown. They pretended they were being denied the promotion and a corner office because they were gay - not because they were barely competent. These were grown men, playing at being boys. After work, they’d go home to their tiny apartments in their hip buildings, change out of their power suits into jeans so tight that they’d gag on their balls when they’d sit down and flirt with anything with a dick.

He sighed. Maybe he didn’t _want_ to be alone tonight, but this crowd wasn’t for him. Most nights, he got along fine - pretended to smile, pretended to chat. But he never pretended to flirt.

He chalked up his strange mood to simply a case of seller’s remorse and thought about relocating to a less trendy bar where he could find more compatible company, when a hand on his shoulder broke into his melancholy reverie.

“Peter Burke?”

He turned to find himself staring into the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen, except for his wife’s.

“Neal Caffrey - as I live and breathe. What the hell are you doing here?”

* * *

Neal Caffrey couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted Peter Burke sitting at the bar in one of the more notorious hook-up joints in Chelsea. He figured that Burke was undercover or something, and he was going to take great delight in blowing his cover.

“What the hell am I doing here? That’s a fine question coming from a rather staid and stalwart member of the FBI and a married man to boot.” Neal’s voice was not loud, but it did cut through the chatter at the bar. No one turned around to look at them, no team of backup agents from a waiting surveillance van came rushing in.

The faintly amused expression on Burke’s face turned ice cold.

“I’m widowed. My wife died the night that you started your prison sentence.”

Neal felt like shit and awkwardly apologized.

Peter just turned back to his beer, the brush-off was unequivocal. Neal paid for the glass of wine he ordered and wondered at the stink eye he got from the bartender. He figured he’d walk away now. There was a free table in the corner - he could watch people, maybe find some company for the evening and figure out how he was going to impress the new broom at his company. Not a new boss, but close enough.

He finished off a definitely inferior glass of Shiraz - and grimaced. Not so much at the wine (which really wasn’t a Shiraz), but at himself. Not only had he gone legit - he had a real job, one he liked. It challenged him and he got to play the criminal without running the risk of going to jail. Except that everything was now up in the air - a new senior VP was starting next week, a real conservative type who might not be too keen on employing a man with a felony record in a high-security position. He wasn’t going to report to the new guy, but there was always influence, and lack thereof.

Neal was so lost in his own thoughts that he failed to notice Peter Burke standing over him.

“May I join you?”

Momentarily at a loss for words, he held a hand out - the universal gesture to take a seat.

Peter dropped his coat on the back of the chair and sat down. He pushed a fresh glass of wine in front of him and twisted the cap off a bottle of beer. The man wore a small smile, a cross between a smirk and something a little more self-deprecatory. Neal wondered if Peter realized how devastatingly attractive that look was.

“I’m sorry about before. I didn’t know.”

“How would you? Are you in the habit of keeping tabs on the lives of law enforcement professionals that put you in prison?”

“Actually, Peter, no. I have a lot better things to do than keep track of you.”

The moment descended into awkwardness, and Neal took a sip of wine. He raised his eyebrows - this was not the less-than-stellar vintage he had been served earlier.

Peter must have noticed the look. “The bartender gave you the wrong wine.”

“Deliberately, I think.”

“Don’t think. Enjoy.”

“So, Agent Burke, I guess I didn’t blow a cover.”

“You’re a real asshole, Caffrey. Didn’t you consider you could have gotten me killed?” Peter voice was mild, but there was a strong undercurrent of irritation as he took a sip of his beer. “And it’s not Agent Burke any longer.”

“You’re kidding me!” Neal didn’t bother to hide the shock in his voice. “I figured you were the kind of man who’d want to be buried with your badge and gun.”

“So did I, once. But lately - let’s just say playing Whack-a-Mole with Internet scammers, shutting down stolen credit card schemes and unraveling mortgage fraud claims has lost its appeal. I put in my twenty and retired.”

Neal still couldn’t believe it. “So, if I ever wanted to go back to the life, I wouldn’t have to worry about you chasing me.”

“Go _back_ to a life of crime? Come on, pull the other one, Caffrey. A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

“What, you don’t think I could go legit?” Neal couldn’t remember the last time he had so much fun just talking.

“You - nah.” Peter smiled and took a sip of his beer.

“I’m hurt, Peter. Your lack of faith is disappointing. I did my time, and decided that I never wanted to do it again.” Neal grinned - there was no way that Burke would ever believe that he had gone corporate. And suddenly, a whole world of possibilities opened up. Knowing that Peter wouldn’t be on his tail …

Burke must have read the headlines behind his eyes. “I’d shut down that train of thought right away. If you’re planning something, you won’t stay loose for long. I’ve trained some very good agents, they’ll catch you soon enough.”

Neal grinned, the surge of adrenaline bubbling in his veins. “I’d say ‘game on,’ but it’s sadly true, I’m strictly on the right side of the law these days.”

Peter grinned back. “You were always a consummate liar, Caffrey. But I’m a civilian now, and if you were interested in robbing the Met, there’s nothing I could do about it.”

Neal gave Peter a challenging ‘yeah, right’ look. “In that case, maybe you would you be interested in helping me in executing a theoretical plan to allegedly replace Monet’s _The Manneporte Near Étretat_.”

Peter snorted. “I’m retired, not stupid. I still have several dozen agents’ telephone numbers in my cellphone, and the heads of security for every museum and major gallery in the Tri-State area on my computer. Tell me why I shouldn’t alert them that Neal Caffrey’s back in New York.”

“So much for ‘nothing you could do about it,’ Agent Burke.” Neal couldn’t resist taunting Peter.

“Don’t call me that.” Peter’s rejoinder was filled with annoyance.

“So - what’s in store for you now?” Neal was genuinely curious.

“A little of this, a little of that.”

“And a whole lot of the other stuff?”

Peter looked up at him and leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering under half-closed lids. “Maybe.”

The way Burke’s voice rumbled with that single word sent a curl of desire through the base of Neal’s belly. This was an unexpectedly pleasant possibility.

“So, you wouldn’t deck me if I suggested we go back to my hotel room?” Neal tilted his head back towards the door.

“Depends on the hotel.” This smile was definitely a smirk, and that curl of desire multiplied. Neal was bemused by his own reaction - he didn’t normally play power games with partners of either sex.

“I’m staying at the Chelsea Wyndham - just up the block. Is that acceptable?” Neal found himself half-hoping that the oddly enticing _former_ Agent Burke was actually bluffing. He wanted to hook up with this man so badly, he was startled by the intensity of his desire.

“Sounds perfect.” Burke got up and held out a hand to Neal, who was thoroughly charmed by the old fashioned courtesy.

During the short walk from the bar to his hotel, he discovered several things about Peter Burke.

The first thing he found out was that he was downright handsy. Not in the boyfriend way, though. It was the hand up from the table, helping him on with his coat, a hand at the small of his back as they walked out of the bar, and again as they entered the hotel - first through the doorway, then onto the elevator. It was a hard, hot presence - much like what Neal hoped other parts of Peter Burke would be like.

The second thing he learned about Peter Burke was that he had absolute confidence in himself.

“Do you have lube and condoms, or do we need to stop someplace?”

Neal just gaped at him.

“What? You expect me to go bareback with you? That’s not happening, Caffrey. You did four years in a Federal pen and while you may be the sexiest man I’ve ever met, I’m not risking my health on you.”

“I’m clean.” Neal didn’t bother to sound outraged. It wasn’t as if he never had to worry about his HIV status.

“You’re also a professional con man. Now - we either stop or we part company, which is it?”

“That was never proven in a court of law. But I do have condoms and lube in my hotel room.” And Neal had to smile, because no matter how confident Burke was he didn’t …

“What’s so amusing?”

“You don’t do random hookups, do you?”

“How do you figure that?”

“You don’t carry protection with you. If you were a player, you’d have at least one on you.”

“Who’s to say I don’t? But you’re right. I don’t do this often - and we usually go back to my place. That way I don’t have to get up and go anywhere when we’re done.”

Neal stopped. “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Go back to your place?”

“No, your hotel room is just fine.”

Burke also didn’t feel the need to make unnecessary conversation. After the discussion about the condoms and lube, Peter didn’t say much else. And that Neal wasn’t offended by Peter’s remarks about his stay at Hotel Fed sort of amazed him, because if anyone else said that to him, Neal would have walked away without comment. Or knocked his teeth out.

Peter kept a hand on the small of his back as they walked down the short hallway to his hotel room. Neal always preferred small hotels - no corridors to get lost in.

He smiled and glanced back at Peter over his shoulder as he opened the door. There was a strange look in the other man’s eyes. Neal decided to ignore the chill it sent through him.

He’d come to regret that very soon.

  


* * *

He hadn’t intended to do this when he saw Neal Caffrey in the bar, nor when he sat down at his table. It didn’t occur to him when he bantered with the other man or even when he accepted Neal’s delicately put offer for a night of sex. But something snapped inside him when Neal opened the door to his room, the up-from-under look he gave him over his shoulder. Maybe it was the bright blue eyes and cheekbones like knives, or the fall of dark hair over his pale, smooth brow. The coloring was too much like his wife’s, but Neal definitely was _not_ Elizabeth. The need for violence finally erupted and focused on a convenient target.

He preceded Neal inside, and as the man turned to engage the lock, he grabbed him and threw him against the wall.

“Hey - hey. No need to get rough - that’s really not my scene.”

“Shut up, you stupid fuck.” He hauled Neal into the room.

“Peter? What the hell is this?”

There was just a touch of panic in Caffrey’s voice. _Good_.

“You really think we’re going to have a night of hearts and roses?” Peter put a choke hold on Neal and pushed him to the floor.

Neal struggled and almost broke free.

“Good move, Caffrey. Learn that evading the rapists in prison?”

Peter applied a little more pressure, just enough so that Neal would black out for a few moments. Long enough for Peter to get his tie off and around Neal’s wrists.

When Caffrey didn’t come to in the expected few minutes, he went to the bathroom and got a glass of water. He turned Neal over and poured the water over his face in a steady stream. The man opened his eyes, and Peter wondered at his own lack of enjoyment at the fear and outrage that clouded them.

“I could have pissed on you, so be grateful.”

“What are you doing?” There was full blown panic now.

Neal tried to scramble into a sitting position. Peter simply hauled him up and threw him on the bed.

“I don’t understand.” Neal was practically sobbing.

“Okay, I’ll be happy to explain. For three years of my life, I chased you around the country. I spent more time on the road than I did at home with my wife. You stole those years from me, Caffrey. You took away the time I should have had with her. She’s dead and I’ll never get those moments back.”

“Peter, please. It’s not my fault.”

He leaned over Neal, so close he could smell the wine on his breath. “It is, you son of a bitch, it is all your fault. And you’re going to pay for stealing that time from me, from Elizabeth.”

Neal struggled again, trying to use his head to knock Peter’s, but as much as he struggled, Peter easily managed to stay out of range of flailing head and legs. A knee at the small of his back, a hand between his shoulder blades. He didn’t like to think that he was using the hand-to-hand combat techniques he learned in the FBI to subdue and assault someone who was …

_No, no - Neal Caffrey wasn’t an innocent man._

Peter held Neal down until he was exhausted and simply stopped struggling. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a condom. Like he had told Neal, he wasn’t going to risk his health for Neal’s pretty ass. He started to tear it opened, then he looked at the foil package and laughed. What the fuck did it matter - after tonight, his life was over anyway. He tossed it on the floor and went to unbuckle his belt

“Peter, don’t - don’t do this.” Neal’s voice was beyond panic now, he was pleading. There were tears in his voice. “You aren’t a rapist - you aren’t like this.”

His hands shook as he tried to push the leather out of the belt loops and he finally got it free. He managed to unzip his pant and pull out his dick, and then realized that there was nothing he could do while Neal was still fully clothed. _And it didn’t help that he was as soft and limp as an uncooked sausage._

He turned Neal over and tried to get his pants down, but as much as his hands shook when he undid his own clothes, it was ten times worse with his victim’s. _No, Neal Caffrey is NOT a victim._ Peter tried to push his conscience away.

He kept telling himself that finally, finally, someone would pay for all the moments he’d never have. And all those moments he shouldn’t have taken, sitting in his office late at night, staring at copies of surveillance photos and wondering what that marble smooth skin tasted like, when his wife was alone, waiting for him to come home to her.

* * *

Neal could not believe this was happening to him. He spent four years avoiding rape in prison. And afterwards, he was always careful - never accepting drinks from strangers, never take anyone back to his place, but all those rules got thrown out when Peter Burke smiled at him.

And for what? Some sick and twisted idea of vengeance?

He thought about screaming, maybe someone would hear and send for security. But that would probably be too late. He wondered if Burke planned on killing him when he was done.

He couldn’t help the tears, he couldn’t stop pleading, even as the other man started to fumble with his clothing, trying to pull his pants down.

“Please, please don’t do this. Please…”

Burke didn’t answer, but he stopped for just a moment, then went back to fumbling at his pants.

“Peter - raping me isn’t going to give you back the time you lost. You know that.”

He stopped again.

Neal wondered if mentioning his wife’s name would set Peter off, but he took the chance. “You aren’t a rapist, Peter Burke. Elizabeth _your wife_ …” Neal waited for an explosion from the other man “… didn’t love a rapist.”

Peter finally looked up at him and Neal met his eyes.

“No, Peter. Don’t do this.” His voice was quiet.

His words finally seemed to break through the shell of violence that Peter had wrapped around himself, and he stopped trying to pull down Neal’s pants. Hell, he couldn’t even get his belt undone.

The look on the other man’s face was devastating. Grief, fear, pain - but thankfully, no more rage.

Peter flipped Neal over and he had a few bad moments until he undid the knots that bound Neal’s wrists, then he backed off the bed. Neal watched him swallow and turn green, then bolt for the bathroom.

There were many things he should have done at that moment - he should have called the police or hotel security, at least left the room. Then he noticed the half-opened condom wrapper and did neither. He stayed and listened to Peter retch for what seemed like ten minutes.

Finally, that awful gagging sound stopped, the toilet flushed and the water ran. Peter came out of the bathroom, still looking like death warmed over. Neal could read remorse and self-loathing in every line of Peter’s carriage. He moved like a man walking to his doom.

* * *

When he came into the room, Peter was shocked to find that Caffrey was still in the room. He figured he would have hightailed it out of there.

“You call the cops?”

“No.”

Peter was puzzled. “Why not? I’m fully prepared to surrender. I assaulted you. I was going to rape you. I might have even killed you when I was finished.”

Neal didn’t say anything. He just looked at Peter, his eyes huge, mouth grave.

Peter bent to pick up his jacket; he felt old and sick and tired of life and he sat down, burying his face in his hands. “Call the cops, Neal. Don’t be stupid.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you stop?”

Peter scrubbed at his face and looked back at Neal. “Would you believe, I couldn’t get it up.”

“I’m not surprised. You’re not a rapist, Peter.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

“As you so casually noted, I’ve done hard time. I spent four years fending off sexual assaults from all manner of scum. I know the type – and you’re not it.” Neal refused to let the question go, though. “But I can’t figure out what stopped you.”

“Caffrey – you’re confusing me. You keep saying that I’m not a rapist, but you’re insisting on knowing why I didn’t go through with it.”

“I guess I need to understand you. I know you didn’t come back here with me with that intent – it wasn’t until we got to the room. And you were vicious. You weren’t going to stop. But something changed your mind.”

“And I told you, I couldn’t get an erection. That’s kind of important, don’t you think?

“Peter – we both know that even if you couldn’t get it up – there are other ways, other things you could have used.”

“Caffrey – just drop it. Call the police.”

“No.”

Peter shook his head at Neal’s foolishness, and got up to leave.

“If you’re not going to tell me why you stopped, at least answer another question.”

Peter just wanted to get out of there, but he turned back to face Neal. “What?”

“Are you going to go home and eat your gun?”

The shocked silence was answer enough. He turned back to the door, a thoroughly defeated man, and yet some part of himself, the decent part - the man who was once Elizabeth Burke’s husband, couldn’t quite understand why, after all this time, he was going to end his own life.

“Peter - I’m not going to try to stop you from killing yourself. I don’t think I could.” Neal paused and Peter wondered what was next. It wasn’t what he expected.

“Before you go, could you please do a favor for me.”

He stopped – his hand on the doorknob. “What do you want, Neal?” It hurt to get the words out.

“Tell me about Elizabeth. Peter. I want to know about her.”

Peter wanted to stalk back into the room and beat the living daylights out of Caffrey. How dare he even mention his wife’s name? He turned the knob and opened the door.

Neal’s next words stopped him cold. “Once you kill yourself, no one else will have those memories. She’ll die again, this time forever.”

He closed the door and turned back to Neal. “Why are you so sure I’m going to kill myself?” The question left a sour taste on his tongue, like the after burn of vomit.

“Just this.” Neal held out the half-opened condom that he discarded. “I found it on the floor – almost under the dresser – you tossed it there. Given how insistent you were earlier about practicing safe sex, this tells me that you decided that it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. And that somehow doesn’t seem at all like the Peter Burke who chased me for three years, or the man who walked with me back to this hotel room.”

Peter came back into the room. He shook his head and licked his lips. It was appalling how easily this man could read him. But he shouldn’t be surprised; he could read the other man like a book, too. Caffrey was scared – not of him, but of the consequences of this night.

“Please, tell me about Elizabeth.”

The pain, the misplaced anger and simmering need for violence, the mixed emotions that his resignation brought, simply dissipated like fog under the morning sun. It had been so long since anyone asked him about Elizabeth. He sat down next to Neal and tried to put the joy of his life into words.

“She wasn’t perfect, but she was the best thing that ever happened to me…”

* * *

Neal let Peter talk for hours, building a portrait of the woman he loved so much. She was smart and funny and beautiful, she took no bullshit from him, but she respected him. They had the type of marriage that dreams are built on.

He told Neal about how they met, laughing a little, crying a little over the stumbling blocks to their first date.

“Did you keep that poster?”

“No – I wanted to, but El tossed it when we moved. I do have a picture though.” Peter pulled out his wallet and extracted a well-worn photo of a brunette in a horrendous puffy coat holding up a sign “I ♥ Italian”. He gave it to Neal.

Neal thought his heart was going to break.

He handed the picture back and Peter brushed a thumb across the woman’s face before very carefully tucking it back into his wallet.

“We didn’t want kids, you know?”

That was a rhetorical question – so Neal just nodded.

“Most people thought we tried and gave up. But honestly – we didn’t want them. Not then, not ever. And I was away, or I worked long hours when I wasn’t traveling. El had a successful business. We were so happy – just the two of us. We didn’t need children to complete us. Can you understand that?”

Peter seemed on the verge of breaking – or looking for validation for that decision.

“Too many people tell you how sad it was that you didn’t have children?”

Peter nodded. “Or they’d say, thank goodness you _didn’t_ have children, how awful it would have been if they’d been left without a mother.”

“As if Elizabeth was only good for one thing - her reproductive skills.”

“Yeah.” Peter ran a hand across his face. “How come you’re so perceptive, Caffrey? I didn’t figure this from you – from the jerk who thought it would be fun to blow a cover.”

Neal grimaced, more than a little ashamed now. “Sorry about that.”

Peter laughed bitterly. “I think that on the scales of things to be sorry about between us, I’ve got a long way to go before they’ll be balanced.”

“Peter - forget about what happened before.”

“How can I? If you hadn’t stopped me - I may have ended up murdering you.”

“I stopped you?” Neal wanted to laugh - now Peter tells him. “How?”

“You reminded me that I was once a decent man.” Peter didn’t look at him, instead he seemed to find his hands very interesting.

Neal reached out and brushed a finger against the wedding ring Peter still wore. “You are, and have always been a decent man. I think you just haven’t been able to find a way out of your grief.”

Peter didn’t say anything.

“Tell me more. What was Elizabeth like in the mornings?”

Neal had opened the floodgates and Peter talked until his voice was hoarse, answering all of Neal’s questions. telling him things that he hadn’t told another person in more than half a decade. Neal was enthralled. As Peter had said - Elizabeth wasn’t perfect, but the relationship they had was one he only could dream about. She was wife, lover, best friend and Peter’s whole world. Neal grieved at the knowledge that she existed now only in this man’s memory.

Peter talked until there were simply no more words. They were silent for a few minutes, until Neal got up and pulled bottles of cold water from the minibar for each of them.

He took a sip and thanked him.

“No problem, expense account.” Neal gave him a rueful smile.

“Not for the water - for this.” Peter gestured loosely into the air. “Thank you for -- you know. Asking about Elizabeth. For letting me talk about her.” He paused and took another sip. “After the funeral, it was like she never even existed.”

“People are strange about death - they fear it like they’ll catch something if they talk about it. But don’t they realize that we all die, eventually? Death is absolutely contagious.”

“Yeah - that’s exactly right. It was as if they talked about Elizabeth to me, something bad would happen. Or maybe they were afraid I’d get upset. Or angry.”

They sat together, and Neal just watched Peter put himself back together again.

“I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet her.” Neal’s regret was genuine.

“El had a bit of the pirate spirit in her. I think she would have liked you.”

“Really?” Neal was startled. And pleased.

Then everything came crashing down.

“She was jealous of you, you know.”

“What?” He wasn’t sure he heard Peter correctly.

Peter frowned into the bottle of water and didn’t look at Neal. “She … didn’t like my obsession with catching you.”

“That doesn’t seem to fit the picture of the woman you just created for me. She seemed very supportive of your career, your ambition.”

“No – she understood the job, the sacrifices. She didn’t care for how focused I was on you.”

Neal felt like he was walking into a pool of quicksand. There was something being said here, something he should be able to understand if he listened close enough. He licked his suddenly dry lips and couldn’t fail to notice how Peter’s eyes were glued to his mouth. “What are you saying?”

“Do I have to spell it out in words of one syllable or less, Caffrey?”

Neal shivered at the intensity of Peter’s words. “Maybe you do.”

Peter didn’t answer right away. “I never broke my marital vows – at least to the extent that I never had sex with anyone other than my wife.” He laughed, a harsh sound in the quiet room. “I should qualify that, anyone other than with my wife and my own right hand.”

Neal found it hard to breathe.

“I used to look at the surveillance photos in the case file and fantasize about you. I’d think about all the dirty things I’d like to do to you, all the things I’d like you to do to me. And more - how we’d fit together in each other’s lives. Crazy things like what flavor of ice cream you liked or if you were a Mets or Yankees fan.”

“Peter…” Neal wasn’t sure what to say.

“Are you disgusted?”

Truthfully, he should be – but he wasn’t. He was … aroused, intrigued – and given what happened earlier this evening, a little frightened, too. “No, I’m not.” He kept his answer brief; he didn’t know where this conversation was heading.

“I used to be.”

“Why – because you were attracted to another man?”

“Come on, Caffrey – look where we just met.”

Neal thought it rather funny that when Peter was irritated, he called him by his last name.

“Hey, it’s not unheard of for straight men to discover a different sexuality after the end of a marriage…”

Peter just gave him a pointed look. “Elizabeth knew I was bisexual when we got married. She understood that there could be times that I’d want to swing the other way. That wasn’t what bothered her, or bothered me.” Peter stared at him. Neal found he couldn’t look away. “What bothered her was that she could see that it was more than lust, more than physical attraction. If you were just a picture in a dirty magazine, she wouldn’t have minded at all – we would have played with that together.”

“What?” Neal was completely confused.

“We would look at skin mags and talk about our fantasies, act them out even. But you – you were something different. I wanted to get to know _you_ \-- as more than a case file, a series of brilliant crimes. You appealed to me in the same way Elizabeth did.” Peter finally looked away. Gazing down at his hands, he added, “What Elizabeth really didn’t like was that I didn’t want to share you with her.”

Shaken, Neal got up and walked to the windows, looked out over the lower Manhattan cityscape. It was nearly two in the morning, but the city was as alive as if it were six at night.

He swallowed. “I wasn’t yours to share or not to share.”

“I know.” Peter’s voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself. He got up and stood next to Neal. Body heat radiating off Peter, warming him like a lit fireplace. Neal didn’t realize how cold he had been since… before.

Peter spoke, at last. “Again – thank you. For everything. I’ll be okay – you don’t have to worry.”

Neal turned to look at him, trying so hard to read the other man’s intentions. There was sadness there, but not the all consuming grief that poured off him earlier. In that moment, he made a decision, and he hoped he wouldn’t be damned for it.

He reached out and cupped Peter’s cheek, the late day beard scratchy against his palm. Peter didn’t move, but his stillness was like that of a wild animal, ready to flee at any second. Neal brushed his thumb against the recurve of Peter’s lips, his skin slightly dampening from the warmth of the other man’s breath.

In an unconscious echo of his own pleadings a few hours earlier, Peter begged. “Neal, don’t do this to me.”

Neal tried to understand why he was doing this – this crazy thing. It was more than just desire … there was something else. Maybe compassion, a need to heal, a need for closure? And then he laughed at himself. _What are you, a sexual Mother Teresa?_

He decided to stop over thinking it, that what happened before didn’t matter, and he leaned in and kissed Peter.

* * *

One of the rules he impressed on the men he occasionally hooked up with was “no kissing.” Lips were for sucking cock, maybe some nipple work. Lips were not for kissing. In the six years since Elizabeth died, he hadn’t kissed another person – man or woman – in either lust or affection.

So when Neal pressed his mouth to his, Peter was shocked. He should have expected it, but it was still a surprise to feel another man’s lips on his. Hell, another _person’s_ lips. He opened his mouth, to protest maybe, and Neal, clever thief, slipped his tongue in. It was sly and hot and made him _feel_.

He should have pushed the other man away. Sex should have been the last thing he wanted. He should not have buried his hands in Neal Caffrey’s soft, dark curls or plunged his hands underneath his sweater and touched his skin. He should not have answered Neal’s moan with one of his own.

A lot of shoulds and should nots. And he didn’t give a damn

Neal’s lips tasted like wine and his dreams – or maybe better than his dreams, because it had been so long that he couldn’t remember them.

He finally pulled away, panting. “I don’t kiss.”

Caffrey smirked at him. “Funny, you kiss very well.”

When Neal hauled him close again, Peter didn’t bother putting up even a token resistance. This time, they kissed like gladiators, fighting for some fantastic prize. Maybe it was his natural dominance asserting itself, because by the time he came up for air, his hands were cupped around the other man’s face, and he had Neal backed against the window, pinning him to the glass with his hips.

Peter couldn’t remember seeing anything quite so beautiful (and he viciously pushed memories of Elizabeth away) as Neal Caffrey, lips swollen, pupils blown with desire, ivory skin glowing in the room lights reflecting against the glass.

“Neal, are you okay with this?” _Jesus, was that his voice?_ He brushed a hand down Neal’s face, enjoying the late-day scruff, a contrast to the delicate beauty of his mouth, his eyes.

Neal smiled – it wasn’t the smirk from the bar, or the confidence man’s toothy grin that he remembered from surveillance photos. It was a smile of pure delight. “Yeah – I am more than okay.”

Neal shifted, hip-checked him and they tumbled to the bed. Somehow, he ended up on his back, Neal straddling him. He watched as Neal sat back on his haunches and pulled off his turtleneck in a graceful move.

Peter’s breath stuttered to a halt, his mouth went bone dry at that perfect masculine beauty - like Michaelangelo’s David. He reached up, almost afraid to touch. But Neal’s skin wasn’t cool marble, but warm living flesh.

“You are so beautiful.”

For just a second Neal froze at his words, and it was if a pair of shutters closed. The happy smile was replaced by something more practiced, less real, and even in the dim light he could see the glow fade from Neal’s eyes.

“Neal, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing - why would you ask?” Neal’s voice was light, flirtatious and totally devoid of feeling.

The strangest night of his life just got a little odder. Peter may have called Neal a consummate liar, but he never really got the sense that the man was playing him, until now. Neal trailed a hand down his chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt. Peter grabbed his wrist.

“I’m not the only one in this room with issues, am I?”

Neal shifted, sitting back on his haunches again and sighed. “Yeah.” He gave Peter a rueful smile - the mask dropped again. “I’ve done things -- things I’m not proud of. And most of them involved _this_. He gestured down his bare chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be - I should learn to appreciate an honest compliment.” Neal leaned over him again, kissing him along the jaw, against his throat, licking the mole at the base of his neck.

Tired of being the passive recipient, Peter heaved up and flipped them over, bracketing Neal between his forearms. “You are beautiful, yes. But you are much, much more than that. And I think, after everything we’ve done and said, we don’t need to play games with each other.”

Neal grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him close. “No, Agent Burke - we don’t.”

Peter grumbled, “Don’t call me ‘Agent,’ Caffrey.” But there was humor in that grumble. He stripped off his shirt and tee-shirt, and was shyly pleased by Neal’s look of awe. He wasn’t a gym rat, but he did work at keeping in shape.

“Talk about beauty, Peter. You are gorgeous.”

“Hmmm, not sure about gorgeous.”

“Trust me.”

“Yeah - I think I will.”

He exchanged grins with Neal, happiness such an unfamiliar feeling that he almost didn’t recognize it. Neal fumbled at his fly, and while the motions echoed his own demented acts earlier that night, he refused to let it impinge on his mood. But when it was his turn to work at Neal's belt, he paused and asked again.

“You okay with this?”

Neal’s lips were grave, but his eyes were smiling. “Elizabeth Burke was a lucky woman.” He pressed his erection into Peter’s, a signal to go ahead.

The pair of them struggled out of their pants, laughing at each other’s sudden lack of coordination. Laughter quickly turned to gasps of pleasure, Peter’s fingers teasing the smooth skin between Neal’s buttocks, Neal working his fist around Peter’s cock.

“Lube - you said you had lube.” His request was breathless.

“Nightstand.”

Peter nearly knocked over the lamp in his eagerness, and yes - there was a bottle of lube and a box of condoms in the nightstand, anchored between a Gideons’ Bible and a copy of the Koran.

They used up the bottle and about half the box of condoms. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he felt so _sexual_ , not since Elizabeth. As fleeting a thought as it was, it didn’t hurt and he didn’t resent the lack of pain either.

They fell asleep shortly before dawn, Peter breaking another rule he once thought unbreakable - waking up next to a person that was not his wife.

* * *

Four years in prison made Neal a light sleeper, and despite the late night, he woke up to the low muttering of the man next him. At first, he thought that Peter was on his phone, then he realized that he was talking in his sleep. He couldn’t understand a word Peter was saying, but he was charmed.

Unlike him, Peter was a heavy sleeper (or maybe it was exhaustion), and didn’t stir when Neal got out of bed. He had thought about ensuring he slept on the side closest to the door, but this was a hotel and didn’t matter. There was plenty of room to get up and walk around the bed without disturbing him, if Peter was going to leave without saying goodbye, and he had a feeling he might.

Which is why Neal took Peter’s clothes, shoes and wallet with him into the bathroom when he got up to shower. This may have started out as a random hookup, a night for mutual pleasure and little more, but it didn’t end that way.

Long showers were a common indulgence since leaving prison, but this morning, he kept it to the barest minimum. He couldn’t shake the feeling that if he lingered, Peter might decide that it would be easier to write off the wallet, borrow his wardrobe and make his escape. That the pants would be too tight would just mean he’d fit right in with the locals.

When he came out of the bathroom, Neal shook his head. He shouldn’t have bothered worrying. Peter was still sleeping, still muttering. He didn’t precisely try to wake him up, but Neal was less than quiet when ordering room service for two, with a copy of the Times. The man finally opened his eyes only when Neal opened the curtains and let the sun hit him full in the face.

Peter rolled over, an arm across his eyes to block out the light. “What time is it?”

“A little after three in the afternoon.”

“What!” Peter all but leaped out of bed.

“Just kidding, tiger. It’s about 9:45, I’ve ordered breakfast.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at Neal. “I don’t do morning-afters.”

“Yeah, yeah – I figured. No kissing, no overnight stays, no breakfast for two the next morning. You’ve sure got a lot of rules.”

“Caffrey...”

“Agent Burke, you don’t have much of a choice. I have your clothes and shoes and wallet. And I’m in possession of the only bathrobe.”

Peter didn’t say anything, he just stalked to the bathroom. Neal admired his ass.

Just before room service arrived, Neal put Peter’s clothes back on the bed (minus the tie Peter had used to tie his hands, which was in the wastebasket, buried under tissues and used condoms), together with a pair of his briefs. Their was something delightfully perverse about lending Peter his underwear, especially since the man seemed to want to place a lot of distance between them this morning.

That was going to happen, eventually. Neal had no illusions on that score. But last night was...different. For both of them. He hadn’t been this close to someone in a long time. There were enough boys and girls since he got out to fill the wound that Kate left – not the one to his heart, but to his pride. She had come sniffing around about a year ago, and he found himself unmoved. It was obvious what she wanted – and he made it clear that it wasn’t in his possession, and never had been. He gave her a fuck for old time’s sake and they bid farewell. He never expected to see her again.

This though, this was different. This _could_ be something more, if he wanted it. Yes, Peter was going to be as stubborn as a mule, and he was still grieving. Neal could understand that. _And he’s still feeling guilty for wanting me for all those years._

Peter came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Where are my clothes?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Neal pointed at the bed, one hand holding a coffee cup. “Want some? The hotel guarantees that the coffee is Kona and croissants are freshly made.”

Peter didn’t even blink at the sight of Neal’s clean underwear and socks on the top of his folded clothing, and he donned them without comment.

“You’re really _not_ a morning person.” Neal couldn’t help the teasing.

Peter finished dressing and sat down, helping himself to breakfast. Neal let the man enjoy his coffee; he was comfortable with the silence.

Peter though – he seemed extraordinarily _uncomfortable_. He was fidgety, toying with the cups and plates, tearing his croissant to small pieces, creating a pile of crumbs and eating nothing. If he told him he should just go, Neal knew that Peter would be out of here like a shot. _A little suffering like this is good for the soul._ He hid a grin behind his coffee cup.

“I thought we’d go look at apartments today? What do you think of settling down on the Upper West Side? Say Amsterdam Avenue, maybe Riverside Drive?”

Peter froze, like a deer in the headlights, and Neal couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“I wish I’d thought to take a picture. Your expression is priceless.”

“Neal Caffrey – I’m surprised you survived to adulthood.”

“There was a nun at school who swore I was a child of the devil.”

Peter finally relaxed, chuckling into his coffee. “I suppose I should ask if you have any plans for the day.”

“I thought you didn’t do morning-afters?”

“I don’t – but I’m trying to be polite.”

“Truthfully, I am going to need to hunt for an apartment. I’ve been reassigned to my company’s New York office.”

“You really do have a legitimate job.” Peter shook his head.

“How the mighty have fallen, eh?” Neal frowned in mock disgust.

“I guess sometimes the rehabilitative aspects of our penal system do work. Scared straight?”

“Well, not precisely _straight_.”

Both men smiled at the double entendre.

Neal knew that Peter wanted details, but his natural reluctance to talk about himself, and the nature of his job kept his mouth shut. “If you’d like to spend the day together, we could do something.”

“Go case a museum or two?”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Nope.” The smile Neal got from Peter was the same one that enticed him last night, and he was two words from asking if he would just like to spend the day in bed.

“I really should go. I have some things to deal with this weekend.”

There was real reluctance in Peter’s voice, and Neal took heart. _Maybe, just maybe..._

“But I could do dinner tonight. You up for that?”

Neal couldn’t help but grin at the diffident way Peter asked him for a date.

“Absolutely.”

Peter wiped his lips and tossed down the napkin. “Meet you in the lobby at seven?”

“Where are we going?”

“Let me surprise you.”

Neal followed Peter to the door. Before he walked out, he put his hand on Peter’s arm, and his eyes were serious. “If you change your mind and want to cancel, I’ll understand. Just call the front desk and leave a message.”

Peter leaned in and kissed him, quick and hard and it sent his blood thrumming. “I said I’ll see you at seven. In the lobby. Don’t be late.”

* * *

**A Monday Morning, Mid-November, 2011**

When the town car arrived to pick him on Monday morning, Peter couldn’t help but think that a new life really had begun. Or maybe it started when he left his gun in the lockbox and didn’t put on a shoulder holster underneath his jacket.

Actually, it really began just before midnight, Friday. In a moment when he thought his life should have been over, all his futures but one burned away, Neal had tossed him a lifeline. That simple act of kindness – asking about Elizabeth, went a long way in healing a festering wound to his soul.

He hadn’t realized how heavy his grief was, how accustomed he had gotten to carrying it around, and yet how unmanageable it was. Just being able to talk about her, to someone who cared...it may have been such a cliché, but it made all the difference in the world.

It was funny, there were a few times Saturday afternoon, while Peter puttered around his apartment, that he thought of canceling. But it was as if just having Neal’s permission to back out made it all the more important that he not do so.

And for the first time in over six years, he talked to Elizabeth. When he travelled - particularly when he was chasing after Neal, he always took her picture with him, and he got into the habit of talking with her – particularly late at night when he couldn’t sleep. Since she died, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring himself to have a conversation that could never, ever be answered. Saturday, though – it seemed right. He told her everything – retiring from the Bureau, meeting Neal again, the sudden urge to violence and the bone-deep despair. He told Elizabeth about what happened afterwards, and the irresistible attraction he felt.

He didn’t ask for forgiveness or permission. Those weren’t needed. Peter knew she was dead, but the pain of her loss was not such a bitter ache anymore.

Dinner on Saturday, at a gastropub in Soho, was enjoyable for more than the food. Neal was his intellectual equal, and they talked on subjects as wide ranging as the Van Meegeran forgeries (Neal had nothing but contempt for that Dutchman) to the decline of the big chain bookstores and the possible renaissance of small independents, to the perennial failure of the metropolitan area sports teams. Oddly enough, Neal liked soccer, hockey and baseball, but was not so much a fan of football and basketball. They both confessed to a fascination with curling.

The evening ended back at Neal’s hotel room, and if they didn’t use up the fresh bottle of lube Neal bought and the rest of the condoms, it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

Sunday morning lacked Saturday’s awkwardness; they shared both a shower and breakfast. Peter didn’t return Neal’s underwear, but had the forethought to bring an extra pair of his own. When they parted, he could see Neal wanted to ask him if they’d see each other again. Peter wanted to ask the same question. Both men said nothing and kissed each other goodbye.

He had made it down to the street and nearly turned back - not to spend the day, but to get Neal’s phone number, since he wasn’t going to be at this hotel forever. But Peter didn’t. Asking for it was a Rubicon he wasn’t quite ready to cross. It wasn’t until that night, when he got undressed and ready for bed, that he found the origami rose that Neal tucked into his shirt pocket. On the edges of the impeccably folded paper flower were Neal’s cellphone number and email address.

He smiled as he tucked it into his wallet, next to the picture of Elizabeth.

* * *

Peter had forgotten what it was like to have a first day at a new job. Come to think of it, he really never did have one in a professional setting. Yes, he had done his internship at one of the Big 5 accounting firms, and had a post-Academy orientation – but neither of those would compare to taking on the position of Chief Financial Officer in a major international corporation.

His vast corner office was the complete opposite of the tiny fishbowl he had at the Bureau. Concordine wasn’t an old money company, but it played in a space filled with businesses that predated the second World War, and it tried to look like its rivals. The executive floors were filled with masses of wood paneling, plush oriental rugs and a stunning array of original artwork. He found himself with an executive assistant (who had her own secretary), two junior accounting assistants, a “business partner” from Human Resources, a pair of project coordinators, a department comptroller and company-wide one as well. Not to mention a team of ten executive level direct reports (all vice presidents) plus over two hundred other financial and accounting staff members – just in the United States.

Peter did his best not to appear overwhelmed, but when Veronica (his executive assistant) handed him a copy of the press release and company bio for internal distribution, he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Maybe he’d call Neal tonight and tell him about it over drinks.

“How many more of these meetings do we have for today.”

Veronica checked the calendar on her iPad. “Just two more, then you are scheduled for a meeting with Mrs. Feldman. That means drinks. She also said something about dinner at Daniel.”

Peter smiled – Sonia Feldman was probably the single greatest reason why he accepted Concordine’s offer. She built this company from scratch – it wasn’t her husband’s, or her father’s or her grandfather’s. It was hers – started with seed money she earned as a junior accounting associate. Sonia was brash and unapologetic about either her brains or her beauty. She didn’t so much charm him, as bowl him over.

He scrubbed at his face, glad the day was almost over.

“Weary, sir?”

“Cut the ‘sir,’ Veronica. You’re my age.” He liked his assistant; she gave as good as she got, in a way reminding him of his favorite probationary agent – Diana, who had left shortly before El died.

“It’s not polite to talk about a woman’s age.”

“It’s not politic to make your new boss feel old on his first day.”

“Coffee?”

“Sounds good. I’ll need it.”

She came back with a cup of perfectly made espresso just as the next to last of his staff arrived for the preliminary interview. He deliberately didn’t offer the man a cup. He wasn’t here to make friends.

The fifteen minutes allotted for this meeting dragged as Peter grilled this particular VP on his testing protocols for Sarbanes-Oxley compliance. He quickly came to the conclusion that the man was both a moron _and_ an idiot.

The last interview was significantly better, and they ran ten minutes over the schedule, talking about risk management. She alluded to new internal security programs, but demurred on the details. Peter’s curiosity was piqued when she told him that Internal Security reported directly to the company president and board of directors. No one knew who the department head was, how big a team he or she controlled, where they were based, but in the last two years, the security chief’s team had uncovered several serious security issues in the past two years.

As they walked to the president’s office, he grilled Veronica. “You’re telling me there is a VP and a department here that no one knows?”

“No one but Mrs. Feldman and the Board.” Veronica was tried hard to hide a smile.

“You’ve got to be kidding. There is a group of stealth employees going around and discovering who is stealing office supplies?” Peter shook his head. He knew that internal security in a financial services company was much more important than he was making it out to be.

“Fourth Amendment doesn’t apply to corporations. Sir.”

Peter glared at his assistant. “I think I know that. I’m also familiar with undercover operations. I just don’t like the idea of a group of employees being permanently undercover. Seems a little Orwellian to me.”

Veronica knocked, then opened the door to the president’s office suite. “Well, I guess you can discuss that with Mrs. Feldman.”

Sonia Feldman was in the outer office, chatting with her assistant - a man young enough to be her son. Peter had met Stephen during the interview process. Sonia had been running late, and the young man was eager to ask him about his career with the FBI. Peter wasn’t sure if the kid was doing some sort of pre-interview interview, or if he was actually interested in become an agent. Regardless, he felt compelled to give a little pep-talk about the Bureau and the Academy.

“Peter.” Sonia held out her hands to him, greeting him like a long-lost friend. “I’ll have you know that I’m more than a little annoyed with you.”

Peter stepped back - this wasn’t good. But she was smiling, so it couldn’t be that serious. “Stephen was just telling me that he’s submitted his application to the FBI, based on your encouragement. I almost hope he gets turned down - I don’t want to lose him.” But it wasn’t hard to see that she was teasing.

Peter looked at the young man, so eager, so earnest. In a way, it was like looking into a mirror and seeing his younger self. “Hmmm, is this really what you want?”

The breathless “yes, Sir!” was a delight to the twenty-year veteran that lived inside him. “I know quite a few people…”

“You’d do that?”

“I can’t make any promises, and I’ll need to see your application first.”

The kid’s shining eyes made him feel ten feet tall, and almost ancient. He looked back at Sonia, she was smiling fondly.

“Come on in, Peter. Let’s talk about your first day.” Before they went into the inner office, Sonia gave her assistant a cryptic instruction. “You can go for the day, but make sure the alarm in the outer office is left off.”

He wasn’t quite so comfortable that he felt he could ask her why she was leaving a hole in her physical security.

She turned to him. “What would you like to drink?”

He figured he could toy with a single glass of scotch for a while. But before he could ask, she offered him a choice, “I’ve got single malt, but you strike me as a beer kind of guy.”

Peter sighed in relief. “To be honest, yeah.”

“Stout or pilsner?”

“Pilsner if you’ve got.”

She pulled out two bottles of Peroni. “You are a man after my own heart. I know I’m supposed to play with the big boys and pretend to enjoy 50-year old scotch, but frankly I can’t stand the taste. I discovered this when Jack and I were in Italy a few years ago.”

She opened the bottle and handed it to him, opened her own and sipped straight from the long neck. Peter stood there, bemused. “Oh - did you want a glass?”

“No - this is fine.” He took a sip, then another.

“So - how was your first day?”

“Would it worry you if I said it was a little exhausting.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.” She sipped her beer. “Have you met all of your staff?”

“I think I interviewed about six hundred vice presidents since I got here.”

She laughed at his exaggeration. “Surely not _that_ bad, Peter?”

“It was bad enough. My staff is not going to like me.”

“You’re not paid to be liked.”

“I know.” He sighed. “But I used to be liked, respected and admired. Once upon a time.”

“Do you want me to quote Machiavelli to you?”

“Please, don’t.”

They chatted for a few minutes, Peter pointing out the deadwood he got from his first impressions. Sonia agreed with him on some, they disagreed on others. He finished the bottle and she got them both seconds. He was feeling pretty mellow when there was a knock on the inner door.

“Ah, that would be your last meeting of the day.” Sonia got up to open the door.

Peter stood up and moved into the shadowed area of the large office. His gut - which was still nearly infallible, told him that he was about to meet the super secret Vice President of Internal Security. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what that person would be like, though. Maybe a James Bond type, or perhaps more like Bond’s boss, “M.”

Sonia opened the door just wide enough to admit a lean body in a dark, well-made suit. He slipped into the room like a man accustomed to stealthy behavior.

Whatever, whomever he was expecting, he was not prepared for Neal Caffrey to walk through that door.

Peter kept to the shadows, hoping to hide the shock that must have been written on his face. He watched as Neal greeted Sonia, very European with a kiss on each cheek.

“So, where’s the new CFO? I seem to have been left off the distribution list for the company bio. Any reason for that?”

“Did you get a copy anyway?” There was a little tension in Sonia’s voice. Peter didn’t doubt that Neal would pick up on that.

“No - I figured that you had your reasons. But it’s unlike you to be so squirrelly. What gives?”

She took Neal’s arm and turned to face Peter.

“Stop hiding in the shadows, and come meet my Chief of Internal Security.”

Peter stepped into the light.

Sonia was all mischief and smiles. “Introductions aren’t necessary. I think the two of you know each other.”

Peter hoped he was better at hiding the shock than Neal was. He opened his mouth to say something - he didn’t know what, and he closed it again.

Sonia stepped right into the middle of this awkward moment. “Now, Peter - before you get angry, let me explain something.”

He swallowed twice and interrupted her. “I am not going to get upset. I was just going to point out that you’ve got the fox guarding the henhouse.” He caught the hurt look in Neal’s eyes and hoped the expression on his own face was readable enough. _Play along, Neal_.

“Ahhh, but this is a very _special_ fox, Peter.” Sonia was obviously delighted with this little orchestration.

“I didn’t know you went corporate.” Neal held out his hand, and Peter shook it.

“It was a recent decision.” Peter kept his voice cool. “I did know that you got out of prison - your release notice crossed my desk, what - two years ago?”

“Were you surprised that I didn’t show up on your radar again?”

“Frankly …”

Sonia interrupted before the conversation got any more biting. “I’m glad to see that the two of you are not at each others’ throats.” She smiled at both men.

“Peter, do know want to know why I picked you over a pool of very well qualified CFOs? I did get a little resistance in selecting someone with no corporate experience whatsoever.”

Peter kept his voice even, but his eyes were fixed on Neal. “It had occurred to me, but honestly - I was happy to be offered the position. I wasn’t going to question your choice.”

“Well, my reasoning was pretty simple. Neal is simply the smartest man I have ever met.”

Peter was a little surprised at the dark red flush that burned across Neal’s cheeks.

Sonia continued, “And I figured that whoever caught Neal had to be just as smart, if not smarter.”

Now it was Peter’s turn to blush.

“Burke and Caffrey - I think you’ll make a terrific team for Concordine Financial.”

Neal stared at him, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder at how badly this could have gone.

“Sonia…”

“What, Neal? Don’t you think this is a terrific opportunity? You got to play cat and mouse with Peter for three years - now you get to work with him, and play cat and mouse with people out to steal from me.”

“Are you changing my reporting line?”

Peter could understand the horror in Neal’s voice - it perfectly echoed his own reaction to that possibility.

“Oh, no - you’ll still report directly to me and to the Board - but so much of what you do is going to reflect on Peter’s work - and you know that I want you to get started on the Finance group here in New York, so you’ll need to have a good relationship with him.”

Sonia turned serious and gave both men a gimlet stare.

“I want both of you to sort out your differences - and I am not going to brook any disagreement from either of you.”

Peter tried to hide smile. “You’re ordering us to ‘play nice’?”

“If I have to - but I don’t think I will need to.”

“Why do you say that?” Peter wondered if she knew about this past weekend. But no, it was almost something worse.

“I’m not the only one with friends at the FBI and in the DOJ, Peter. It wasn’t hard to find out that you had a great deal of respect for the man you chased for three years. So much respect that you made a very eloquent request to the trial judge for a lenient sentence - which the judge apparently agreed with. The four that Neal got was originally supposed to be fifteen.”

Peter didn’t say anything about his communication with the court. He’d reach out to Jones and ask him to trace that leak some time. Neal didn’t say anything at this news, but Peter could read the delight in his body language.

“You’re right, Sonia - I do respect Neal - his intelligence, and his resourcefulness. In fact, I am ecstatic that he’s made a life for himself that doesn’t include frauds, forgeries and confidence schemes.”

“So - you’ll be able to work with Neal?”

“I don’t see why not.” Peter grinned at Sonia. Damn it, this was not going to be easy.

“Neal - will you have problems with Peter? He is, after all - the person responsible for catching you and putting you in prison.”

Neal caught Peter’s eye, and he could read the mischief there. “Sonia - apparently, Peter’s also the reason why I’m not still in prison. So I can’t see why I’d have any problems.” The little shit actually held out his hand to him again. “No hard feelings, Agent Burke?”

Peter took Neal’s warm, smooth palm and shook it. “Don’t call me that, Caffrey.”

“Good! Then you won’t mind having dinner together tonight?”

Both of them looked at Sonia - maybe she did know what was going on between them.

“I had made dinner reservations for the three of us at Daniel’s, but Jack called, and I’m going to have to cancel. But this will be a nice way for the two of you to get acquainted as civilians. And the pressed duck is to die for.”

Peter wasn’t a fan - but he wasn’t going to mention that. Neal was looking at him like he wanted to make a meal out of him, and damn it, he was reacting to that.

_They were going to have to have a little chat about office decorum._

Sonia interrupted his train of thought. “There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. Go - I have a few things to do here before I can get home to my husband.”

She actually took their arms and pushed them out the door. Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just been played.

* * *

“We’ve been played.” Neal kept his voice to a stage whisper as they left Sonia’s office.

Peter looked at him – his expression was undecipherable.

Neal rocked back on his heels, hands up. “Peter – I had no idea.” He didn’t – the last person he ever expected to see in Sonia’s office was the man he just spent the weekend with. The man he was falling hard for. The man who sent him to prison.

“No – I believe you.”

Neal relaxed. “I thought you said you retired.”

“No, I said I left the Bureau. I didn’t stay I was retired.”

_You’re really splitting hairs there, Agent Burke?_

They walked back to Peter’s office, and Neal stopped when he saw that the lights were still on. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

“We’re going to have to talk about this undercover business.”

Neal grinned. “We’re going to have to talk about a lot of things. And yeah, I understand the irony of this request - please don’t blow my cover.” He went to the elevators and covertly watched Peter greet his admin.

As Sonia had promised, there was a car waiting for them – a limo, not just a town car. Neal put up the privacy screen, leaned back and while he waited for Peter, he contemplated the coincidences that brought them here.

Either there were too many coincidences or Peter rushed to join him, because Neal didn’t get beyond walking into that bar on Friday night when the door opened and Peter sat down next to him.

Neal thought about pouncing on Peter, but he was a few seconds too late. As the car pulled out into traffic, Neal found himself surrounded by the other man, pressed back into the leather seat, his face cupped in Peter’s hands, his lips quickly bit and kissed swollen.

Neal gave as good as he got, biting and sucking. Peter tasted like bitter coffee, and Neal thought how easily he could get addicted to that.

The limo braked suddenly, and both men nearly slid off the seat. Peter recovered first. “We’re going too fast.”

Neal nodded – this was going to get out of control if they weren’t careful. “Do you have any idea what I felt like seeing you standing there, in Sonia’s office?”

“Like when I busted you?”

Neal glared at Peter in mock outrage. “Stop playing the heavy, Agent Burke. Apparently you saved me eleven years in prison.”

“You weren’t supposed to find out about that. No one was.”

“I think you’re going to learn just how frighteningly effective Sonia Feldman is when she wants something.”

“I know – but that email was to a Federal Judge. She shouldn’t…”

“What did it say?” Neal was insatiably curious.

Peter closed his eyes in exasperation. “It wasn’t an official statement or anything. I had gotten wind that the prosecutor was going to ask for fifteen years, based on some of the more obscure provisions of the Federal Sentencing Guidelines.” He looked at Neal. “I merely pointed out to the judge that a disproportionately lengthy sentence could get your conviction thrown out, and I didn’t want to have to start chasing you again.”

“That’s it?”

Peter glared at him. “Okay, I may have also mentioned that you were young and this was your first conviction, and that fifteen years smacked of sour grapes by the U.S. Attorney’s Office for their failure to get guilty verdicts on the rest of the indictments. And I also believed you could turn your life around – you weren’t incorrigible, and you really were a good man.”

Neal was stunned. “You really did care about me.”

“Yeah – I did. And you know something else?”

“What?”

“I was right, Caffrey. You’ve proven me right.” A few simple words, maybe meant to be gloating, revealed far too much.

Neal found himself shaking. He pressed his hands, with suddenly sweaty palms, against his thighs to keep from revealing the tremors. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

“Yeah - it is. What are was going to do about it?”

“I know I don’t want to be your dirty secret. I’m not saying we have to live the life – but I don’t think I can bear to be denied.”

Peter pulled him close, into his lap. “I think we’re thinking of two different problems.”

He looked up at Peter. “We are?”

“I’m wondering about Concordine’s fraternization policy – and both our fiduciary duties to the company that pays our very generous salaries. I’m not worried about people knowing I’m gay. I’ll be as out as I – as we – need to be. I’ve never hidden what I was – what I am – and I don’t intend to start now.”

Neal relaxed into Peter’s arms. “Oh, in that case - there is no problem. We tell Sonia – she’ll be fine with it. The Board won’t care.”

Peter snorted, his warm breath tickling Neal’s scalp. “Fine with it? Hmmm. You know, I still want to know how you got this job. I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve answering an ad in the paper.”

Neal ignored Peter’s quest for information. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow morning, we’ll talk to Sonia. I’ll bet you fifty bucks, she wants to give away the groom and pay for the wedding.”

“Groom? Wedding? Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you, Caffrey?”

“Hey – I’m not proposing…just saying. Trust me, okay?”

* * *

The limo pulled up to the restaurant, and the driver opened the door for them. Peter got out first, and then held out a hand for Neal who smiled up at him like the sunrise.

He couldn’t help but think, _It should not have happened like this._

And then, _Since when is love predictable?_

 

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest, deepest thanks to **jrosemary** , who was so generous with her time and her advice and her handholding. I probably would never have finished this without her sage counsel. And many thanks to my beta **rabidchild67** , who not only caught the millions of typos, but gave me very wise story advise too. Thank you, both. Naturally, all errors that remain are my own. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


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